The Things We Know Now

by Catherine Dunne

  I took the ball and ran with it. ‘After that, I’m taking you to lunch at the harbour.’ I could see he was about to protest, so I deliberately used my mother’s tone again. ‘Please don’t fight me on this. You’re spending far too much time in the house. We’ll come home immediately afterwards, if you want, and I’ll stay with you again tonight. You won’t be on your own. We can talk and try to figure out what we need to do next.’

  I saw him look at me as though he didn’t know me. And, frankly, this was not my normal role. My father and I have had something of a tempestuous relationship over the years. However, I was disturbed at what I was seeing before me; I felt an obligation to do whatever I could, even if only to honour my mother’s memory.

  I don’t know what Jack Morris said to my father, but he looked a little less grey when he emerged from the surgery. Over lunch, he asked about Adam, about my job. I could see that he was struggling – but at least he was making an effort.

  By Sunday afternoon, when Frances and Sophie called over, he’d even had a moment or two of animated conversation. I could see the relief on my sisters’ faces.

  ‘Don’t know what you did, Becky, but that’s certainly an improvement.’ Frances hugged me as she left. Sophie kissed me warmly.

  That must have been the first time in over ten years that Frances had called me ‘Becky’.

  I have to admit that I felt rather pleased with myself. However, I thought it best not to offer any advice to either Frances or Sophie. Apart from anything else, they had both been dealing with this emotional minefield on a daily basis for months. I had not.

  ‘Just let Doctor Eugene know that Dad’s been to see someone. I don’t think anything was prescribed, but I can’t be sure. He got a bit prickly when I asked.’ I ushered both of my sisters out the door, keeping an eye over one shoulder in case my father should suddenly appear and overhear our conversation. ‘Anyway, give me a ring if you need me,’ I said. I made sure that my tone was back to normal, that Dad could eavesdrop on this generous invitation if he wished. The moment the words were out, I wished that I could recall them. But it was too late: the look on both my sisters’ faces made their relief all too plain.

  The next time they called me in a panic, a month or so later, things were worse than ever. Our father had stopped getting out of bed. Frances and Sophie had tried some tough love in an effort to force Dad to do things for himself, but all that happened was that the house descended into chaos. Our father descended into chaos. And so I jumped in the car yet again – a Wednesday evening this time in late April, the days just edging into May – and drove once more to my old family home.

  This time, Doctor Eugene was there to greet us. I could see the look of shock on his face as he took in all the signs of my father’s deterioration. I think he also feared our collective anger at what I still believe was his lack of adequate care. However, this time, he stepped up to the plate, and the rest, as they say, is history. Except that it isn’t: the rest is a trajectory that has brought us from my mother’s funeral to my father’s tentative recovery and now to this, a short three years later – to someone called Ella.

  I had no wish to meet this Ella. When the invitation came, I had no wish, either, to make the journey of an hour and a half – two if the traffic was bad – when the Sunday papers, my own garden and a glass of good wine were way more appealing. But my sisters were adamant. I may have once been the cavalry, arriving at the eleventh hour when they needed me, but my sisters had fought a more lengthy fight – the good fight, as they would see it – on our father’s behalf. I had to accept that, however unwillingly. And Frances and Sophie never lost an opportunity to remind me, lest I forget.

  ‘What is all of this about?’ I demanded. ‘I mean, how ridiculous, how inappropriate is this . . . infatuation? It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is.’

  We were sitting in Frances’s kitchen, the three of us. Our men had made themselves scarce, drifting away out to the morning sunshine on the deck, cans of beer in hand. We’d agreed to meet here at midday, an hour or so before we all obeyed the royal summons to our old family home for lunch. Frances, Martin, Sophie and Peter were already here when Adam and I arrived. I couldn’t help the feeling that the four of them had planned this as a pre-emptive strike.

  ‘You’re overreacting, Rebecca.’ Frances’s mouth had become a thin, disapproving line as I spoke. ‘Give her a chance. She makes Dad happy.’

  Sophie nodded, watching me warily as she poured the coffee.

  I, however, was determined to be heard.

  ‘A chance?’ I said. ‘A chance for what? She’s a gold-digger – plain and simple.’ I hadn’t meant to be so blunt, not at first, but my sense of indignation had got a firmer grip than I’d thought.

  ‘Why do you insist on thinking the worst?’

  I could see that Frances was beginning to get upset, and I was glad. Now we’ll come to the nub of it, I thought. At last we can confront it: what we have each been pussy-footing around for months. She sat down beside me, her face a little closer to mine than I would have wished. In the background, Sophie, silent Sophie, stood by the patio door and exhaled nervous blue smoke out into the Sunday morning air. She hadn’t smoked since our mother’s funeral – or at least, that was the last time I had seen her do so.

  ‘Let me tell you a couple of home truths.’

  I was startled at Frances’s tone. It was harsher than I would have expected.

  ‘When Mum died, you know that Sophie and I picked up the pieces for months.’

  I made to protest, but Frances wouldn’t let me.

  ‘Wait. Just listen to me. You live over a hundred kilometres away. Nobody expected you to be here on a daily basis. What I’m saying is not an accusation: it is a fact.’

  I waited.

  ‘We did his washing, his ironing, his cleaning; we fed him and minded him. We dropped in several times a week. We rang you only when we felt we didn’t know what we were dealing with. We had on an everyday basis what you saw both times you arrived here. Eugene was horrified: it was he who insisted that Dad be persuaded to go for counselling. We’d run out of options at that stage.’

  I didn’t need to be reminded. I remembered all too well both of those appalling visits home.

  ‘And don’t think it stopped there,’ Frances went on. ‘Just because the crises were further and further apart doesn’t mean he was all sweetness and light to deal with in between.’ She paused. ‘He lived a roller coaster of emotions for months. And, by definition, so did we.’ She glanced over at Sophie. ‘We didn’t call you, because we were able to handle most of it between us. But don’t think it was easy.’

  Sophie turned at that point towards where we were sitting. She didn’t speak, but I saw her watch Frances closely.

  ‘I think,’ Frances said, ‘that we can all count ourselves lucky he has found someone. To be very blunt about it – and I’ll only speak for myself – it has taken an intolerable burden off me.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, Rebecca, but I’m pretty damned determined to like what I see this afternoon.’

  Then Sophie spoke. She’d always spent more time observing than speaking, even as a child. ‘What’s the real problem, here, Rebecca? I don’t think you’re being honest with us.’

  To my dismay, I felt my eyes fill. ‘It’s way too soon,’ I blurted. I couldn’t stop myself. ‘How can he discard Mum so easily?’

  Frances stiffened. ‘How can you say that?’

  Sophie stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You have no idea,’ she said, looking directly at me. ‘You have no idea how that man grieved.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘And how do you know,’ Frances’s voice was even, controlled, but I could sense the effort, ‘that he is not still grieving now? Just because he has found someone else does not diminish what he had with Mum. He’s entitled to grieve and recover at the same time.’ She stopped. ‘What gives you the right to judge?’

  It was my turn to get angry. ‘That doesn’t change the fact
that it all happened so quickly. It’s just not – appropriate. For Christ’s sake, she’s twenty years younger than him.’ I paused. ‘She could be his daughter.’

  The silence in the kitchen was a shocked one. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Martin begin to make his way back in from the garden, crushed and empty beer cans in hand. He took one look at Frances’s face and retreated.

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ Sophie’s voice was soft. ‘Your feelings, your sense of moral outrage, rather than Dad’s happiness?’

  I stood up, dusted down my skirt. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ I said. Even I could hear the coldness in my tone. I tried to soften it. ‘It’s about everything,’ I said. ‘I think she’s taking advantage of him and, yes, I still feel that it’s an insult to Mum.’ I looked from one to the other. ‘And it’s way too soon.’

  ‘How long would you like him to wait, then?’ asked Frances. ‘And what would you like him to do in the meantime?’ She glanced over at Sophie. ‘What would you like us to do in the meantime?’ I could hear something dangerous growing in my sister’s words. ‘Would you like to come here and look after him?’

  I could see Adam’s shadow at the door. I knew that he was standing on the deck, listening. ‘He’s only fifty-four,’ I protested. ‘For Christ’s sake, he’s well capable of looking after himself.’

  ‘Says who?’ Sophie walked towards me, her eyes alight. ‘He should be –but the truth is, he’s never had to. It’s one hell of a learning curve. Would you like to come and teach him?’

  I held up both my hands, a gesture of faux-surrender. ‘Have it your way,’ I said. ‘But this will end badly.’

  ‘It may well do,’ Frances said, quietly. ‘It may also end well and give Dad another shot at happiness. Either way, it’s his choice.’ She stopped there, but I had the sense that she wanted to go further.

  I looked from her to Sophie. ‘I suppose you feel the same way?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sophie, nodding. I watched as Peter crossed the room, put one arm around Sophie’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to get my life back, too. It’s been a long three years.’ The bright flash of bitterness in those words brought me up short. Peter took her hand and squeezed it. The gesture made something inside me shift, as though it was making room for something else.

  ‘Okay,’ I could hear myself sigh. ‘I’ll go and meet her – but I’ll reserve judgement.’

  ‘You can reserve whatever you like,’ Frances’s tone was sharp. ‘Just don’t upset Dad today. If we have anything to say, let’s keep it until tomorrow.’ She turned away from me. ‘You and Adam go first, then we’ll follow. Best if we don’t all crowd in together.’

  Why? I wanted to say. Is this Ella such a delicate flower that we might overwhelm her? But I kept my powder dry. I was flooded with an almost overpowering instinct to get in the car and drive home. I wanted to have nothing to do with this spurious celebration. It took all of my self-control to walk the half-kilometre to my father’s. Even Adam knew when to remain silent.

  I should have stuck to my guns. The afternoon was hardly bearable, right from the get-go. My father was ungracious about the food we’d brought with us, barely looked at the wine that Adam handed him – a bottle that he had bought against my wishes. It had cost a fortune. And she – well, she pretended interest in my PhD. I cut that conversation short, I can tell you. I had no intention of discussing with her the reasons I’d had to put it on hold. My mother’s death was only one of them.

  And I was both furious and offended when she tried to issue advice about how to grieve for Cecilia. About how ‘sudden death’ was always devastating. What would she know about my feelings?

  We left, Adam and I, as soon as it was reasonably polite to do so. My father was like a puppy, all big eyes and lolling tongue, dancing attendance on this . . . this interloper is the only polite word that comes to mind.

  Frances and Sophie were all over her, of course, as I had known in advance they would be. They have never had the courage to confront our father. Frankly, I found the whole setup appalling. I don’t believe my sisters have thought through any of the ramifications of this. Sophie is, and has always been, naive. But I thought Frances might have been somewhat more practical.

  What if the relationship failed and this Ella person took Dad to the cleaners? What if they married and there were children? What then?

  It didn’t bear thinking about. And I determined that I would tell him that, too. I knew I would get the opportunity. He has always sought my approval.

  All I had to do was bide my time.

  Patrick

  THAT FIRST YEAR PASSED, and gradually my daughters became more accustomed to Ella’s presence, to her place in my life. Or to be more accurate, two of them did; Rebecca continued to live down to my expectations of her.

  My eldest daughter’s disregard for my happiness caused me pain, I admit it. We exchanged words on that topic, on more than one occasion; words that became heated. There are only some of them that I regret.

  I hadn’t told Ella, but I’d made two separate attempts to reach out to my eldest child, to invoke her blessing. I admit that I was a man accustomed to getting what I wanted. I didn’t take kindly to impediments being placed in my path. Once I made up my mind, I was impatient to get where I wanted to go. At least, that was how I characterized myself then.

  Now, of course, things are very different.

  That first meeting with Rebecca was a mistake. We met in my home – our old family home – late in 1993. Coming up to Christmas, I believe. I’d hoped to disarm her with the familiar, with happy memories, with pleasure at seeing her father back to his old, energetic self again. I’d cleaned and shopped for tea and biscuits, had flowers everywhere in the vases Cecilia and I had bought together in Venice. The house had become warm again, inhabited again. I was proud of my brand-new home-making skills – basic though they might be – happy that my surroundings were sunny and bright, redolent of a future.

  Sometimes, I can be very obtuse.

  When Rebecca arrived, I greeted her cheerily, just as I had done on that day when she’d first come to meet Ella. This time, of course, I had hopes of a different outcome. Those hopes dissolved the moment I led my daughter into the living room. She looked around and, in a flash, I saw the room as she saw it. Everything of Cecilia’s was now arranged to proclaim the arrival of another woman. Vases, pictures, the newly reopened and gleaming piano. I could have kicked myself. Better to have left it shabby: perhaps that way I might have elicited some reluctant sympathy as an impractical and incompetent male.

  Without a word, Rebecca turned on her heel and left.

  For our second meeting, I enlisted Frances’s help.

  ‘Somewhere neutral, Dad,’ Frances said. ‘Somewhere that doesn’t have so many memories.’ Frances herself was upset; tight-lipped in a way that wasn’t natural to her. The strain had begun to tell on all of us. Even Sophie. I felt that her initial support of me was beginning to wane. She no longer called Rebecca ‘Wicked Witch’, for example. Instead, she had murmured something about Rebecca’s needing ‘more time’, about ‘transition’ and ‘turmoil’. I could only imagine the sisterly conversations that were taking place in private, the alliances that were forming and re-forming, the history that was being written and rewritten.

  For our second attempt a couple of months later, we met in a coffee shop in the city, Rebecca and I. It was January 1994, almost four years after Cecilia died. Rebecca and I met by arrangement through Frances, and in an establishment so far away from any familiar haunts as to be perfectly anonymous. Our meeting was tense, brittle, right from the very beginning. It was just a couple of months before Ella and I planned to marry. It was my last chance to secure my eldest daughter’s blessing.

  ‘I wanted to meet you, Rebecca, just the two of us, to ask you to please consider how your behaviour is hurting me.’

  It was not the most delicate of openings, and even as I spoke, I realized my mistake. Stick with how you feel, Ella
would always advise. Focus on your feelings, not the other person’s behaviour. But of course, in the heat and anxiety of the moment, all that advice fled as far from me as though I had never heard it before.

  Rebecca immediately went on the attack. ‘My behaviour is hurting you? Are you for real?’

  I winced. Both at the ferocity of the assault, and the use of Americanisms that Rebecca knows I cannot abide. I decided to ignore both.

  ‘Let’s talk about real,’ I said, leaning across the table. ‘My feelings for Ella are real. Our relationship is real. And the fact that I have asked her to be my wife is real. Is that enough reality for you?’ By now, I was incandescent. I wanted to slap Rebecca’s face, the way she had slapped mine all those years ago. I felt that if I had deserved an unfurled hand on that occasion, she certainly deserved one now. Just in case, I kept both of my hands flat on the table, one firmly on either side of my cup.

  She sat back in her chair and looked at me, aghast. ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘You heard me,’ I said coldly. ‘And what is more, Ella has said “Yes”.’

  Rebecca nodded. She gave a short laugh. ‘I’ll bet she has,’ she said. ‘She knows which side her bread is buttered on.’

  At that, I stood up. I needed to do something to displace the anger that was suddenly white hot, making the top of my head tingle and my fingertips itch. ‘Your mother would be ashamed of you,’ I said, quietly. ‘Cecilia above all would have wanted me to be happy. We used to talk about such things. We realized that no matter what happened, one of us was likely to end up on our own.’ I stopped, tried to calm myself. ‘We always said we’d have hated the other to be lonely. But I suppose that is too inconvenient a truth for you to hear.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me about my mother.’ Rebecca’s tone had turned to ice. Her face was a mask of pallor. ‘It’s obscene. The whole thing. A complete breach of ethics. Taking advantage of a widower like that. She deserves to be reported.’